


Liberica Lavender

by Nyanoka



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: Sword & Shield | Pokemon Sword & Shield Versions
Genre: Coffee, Ficlet, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:01:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25771039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyanoka/pseuds/Nyanoka
Summary: Lost opportunities are often the chances untaken.
Relationships: Dande | Leon/Nezu | Piers, Masaru | Victor/Nezu | Piers
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8





	Liberica Lavender

**Author's Note:**

> I actually do like Piers/Leon a lot by virtue of it being their most unpopular ship among the Adult Trio+Sonia combination and arguably only matched by Piers/Sonia + I see them as foils of each other. Fantastic and I have a small essay on my Tumblr about it (or well, for my interpretations of them anyhow). It's my favorite among those combinations. It's just that I never really get to write it often. I only have two hands, one brain, and a small amount of time. It's hard being an adult...
> 
> I did write this on a quick whim though since the thought wouldn't leave me at 3 am.

It isn’t something that they speak about.

Piers isn’t quite sure what it is—he’s certain Leon doesn’t know either—but they don’t speak about it. It isn’t normal. They’re both adults now; they should be able to communicate their thoughts and grievances at this point as adults do, with words and gestures and not avoidance and a not quite silence. They shouldn’t act as less than even children do. Children, at the very least, are prone to speaking, to insults and to actions and to anything but what they have now—an odd silence, an odd in-between that isn’t quite expressive dislike or excessive admiration.

It isn’t quite hate nor is it fondness, overbearing in its presence and its niggling insistence. It is simply an in-between, something that couldn’t be spoken of. He doesn’t know the reason why—how could he? He doesn’t know what it is—but Leon doesn’t know either. He mustn’t. He hasn’t spoken on it after all.

In that—that shared ignorance—Piers could take solace.

They don’t speak of it.

Instead, they only meet up for coffee every Wednesday—a day somehow even less pleasurable than Monday—at 8:32 p.m. sharp.

That isn’t quite normal.

It isn’t Sunday, day akin to a snake’s nip—poison soaked in the aggravation of an upcoming work week—and it isn’t Friday garbed in the soothing relief of a upcoming weekend.

It, Wednesday, is the“hump” of the week, tiring but not quite memorable as a winding Sunday or a prickling Monday.

The time isn’t quite right either—neither ending in a round “zero” nor taking place in the morning. After all, who drinks coffee at night? No one except workaholics and the addicted. He doesn’t need it—natural night owl that he is—and Leon himself sleeps and eats well enough. He doesn’t need an extra stimulant.

It isn’t even their region’s national drink—tea is—nor is it their favorite.

Hell, he doesn’t even _like_ coffee—too bitter and without the faint herbal taste of tea—but he drinks it anyway during their meetings, always in the same chipped porcelain mug, a gift from his sister.

Certainly, he drowns it in sugar and creamer, makes it more akin to a pasty off-white milkshake or a brown sugar lump, but he still doesn’t like it.

Naturally, he still drinks it during their meetings even if it makes him grimace.

Leon doesn’t comment on it naturally—too polite or perhaps another consequence stemming from their odd, shared habit.

He only smiles amicably, hands wrapped around his own steaming mug—a gift from his own brother—before returning to the conversation at hand, always something or another, never about the strangeness of whatever their meetings are.

They don’t like coffee—preferring teas such as daffodil and chamomile or even sleepy lavender—but they drink it anyway. They don’t comment on it, whatever “it” is.

He even ends up with a fancy coffee machine, grinder included and all imported from Unova, that he sets on the kitchen counter, just underneath the oak cabinets and beside the stainless-steel coffee bean tins. He doesn’t like coffee, not enough to justify owning multiple tins and an imported coffee machine, but he has them anyway, prepares them and drinks it anyway.

He doesn’t comment on it. Leon doesn’t comment on it.

They don’t comment on whatever _this_ is.

They’ve never missed a meeting either, even on the occasions when Leon is out of region for a business trip or when he himself is on tour. They only chatter over phone call or even video chat—shitty gas station coffee or cold bottled espresso held in hand. Sometimes he calls first and other times, it’s Leon. Much like with the nature of their habit, there is no real rhythm to that particular aspect of their meetings.

They never speak about it.

Though perhaps, that isn’t quite right. They almost acknowledged it once, coffees held in the half-lit darkness of Piers’s kitchen—he leaning against his counter and Leon sitting closely nearby in one of the wooden chairs.

There is no rhyme or reason to it—no unbearable longing and no burning curiosity—but he had almost acknowledged once, called Leon’s name first and leaned forward.

His eyes had been curious then, gold shimmering like an especially sweet coffee, but he hadn’t turned away, hadn’t spoken or commented upon it.

He had only waited.

It isn’t hate, and it isn’t fondness. Piers isn’t sure of what it is, of what the rules of their engagement are, but he hadn’t spoken on it then even as Leon had waited, amicable as always.

He isn’t sure of what it is, but he hadn’t spoken on it then. He had only turned his head, diverted attention to some inane subject that he doesn’t remember now.

He isn’t sure what it is—what they don’t speak about—but he doesn’t comment on it.

Leon doesn’t either, not even when Piers finds his hand grasped tightly by someone else—a boy from Leon’s hometown, eyes dark brown, near-black, like unsweetened coffee and voice overly chattering, almost skittish.

It isn’t something that they speak about—neither hate nor fondness nor simply apathy.

It isn’t overbearing or niggling in its presence—he has never settled for something or someone less—but he doesn’t speak on it nor does Leon.

Even when he switches to a tea for their meetings, Leon doesn’t comment on it.

It isn’t something that they speak about even as it fades, presence dwindling—ground—into dust.

**Author's Note:**

> I rather hate the idea that there's only one person out there who you will connect with fully. It places love as a "once-in-a-lfetime" deal rather than as something that forms bit by bit. Though, I do think there is such thing as "missed chances and missed connections."
> 
> I've also never been one to like "stated" answers hence why the "it" in this is never mentioned. Though I usually reserve that for my "serious" works.


End file.
